


the comfort of his contempt

by scuttlesworth



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Out out damn poem, Poetry, Revenge, Roses, contempt, poem
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-23
Updated: 2014-02-23
Packaged: 2018-01-13 11:47:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 397
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1225138
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scuttlesworth/pseuds/scuttlesworth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Someone broke your life. You'll never get it back- but maybe you can get something.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the comfort of his contempt

The world is a porcelean dinner plate  
That your mother's mother gave to her  
And she gave to you before she died.   
It has lush roses on it, pink and fulsome  
Their thorns, if they exist, demure  
Behind painted leaves.   
The plate is cracked.   
You do not see the black fingerprint powder  
On the white door jamb  
Or the torn couch cushions  
Or the disinterested sympathetic glance  
Of the forensics tech.   
Just the crack. 

You sit with it in hand while he walks in  
And ice attends him.   
The police part like the ocean, their blue  
Set aside by the hand of God  
At the will of Moses;   
But there's nothing holy in his gaze  
Unless the angels have taken   
To running cold equations behind their eyes.   
It's possible, you suppose.   
Anything is, since the world in your hands cracked.   
Gods, you hated this ugly plate so much. 

His words are scalpels.  
They peel away the skin of your life;   
You bleed out your facts on the carpet,  
Your deconstruction an amusement.   
The damage is completely irrelevant-   
but that's not true not really  
If he wanted to he could find a way  
To make it not hurt so much  
But he doesn't.   
It's his revenge for all the times  
You normal happy people  
With your normal happy lives   
Mocked his point of view  
Until you cry to him in need. 

Wingless, without a note of music he comes  
His black hair the only halo you'll get  
His eyes infinitely more interested in the crack  
Than the plate.   
You're nothing- just the victim  
You don't count. Never did.   
The thing that matters  
The only thing that matters  
Is the puzzle. And you're glad.   
You'll strip off before him and let his see  
With pitiless gaze, the wreck of your past  
Because the world is cracked  
And you don't want fiscal solvency or fusion cuisine  
You don't want this year's fashion

You want the knife that hides behind those lips   
To go forth on your behalf  
And taste the hands that broke your world  
With their edge.   
You want the tears and regrets that hide inside  
The skin of someone whose fingerprints  
Are staining your walls  
All packaged up in greasy waxpaper  
And delivered to you  
A present, a gift, a treasure  
A way to fix  
Your ugly, rose-blossomed world  
Because every gardner knows  
Roses gow better in blood. 


End file.
